


Off Script

by 13atoms (2Atoms), 2Atoms



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Dom!OFC, F/M, Loving Sex, Smut, but mainly, disenchanted actor!Tom, meet cute, writer!OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:00:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/2Atoms
Summary: Tired of dating apps and empty beds, Tom has all but given up.Sat alone at the bar during a cast party, he realises the writer of his newest project might just be feeling the same.
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

After five years of dating apps, each swipe felt like it bit into Tom’s soul. Tinder, Hinge, Bumble, various niche different platforms, they’d all been downloaded and deleted from his phones. Year after year, frustration and desperation, get-togethers and break-ups had led him back and forth, each profile more and more carefully concealing his identity in the hopes screenshots might stay off social media.

He’d been relatively successful in that, if nothing else. He hadn’t seen a single hysterical tweet from a fan matching with _Tom ACTUAL Hiddleston!_ And his manager had never given him a bollocking for getting caught. Small blessings, he supposed.

It was tempting to reinstall one, sat in his trailer, alone. There were a few he preferred, where his old profile would probably still be serviceable. It wouldn’t even be hard. He could lower his standards this time. He could be more forward. The dullest, sleaziest people seemed to have plenty of success on these apps. Why couldn’t he?

He shouldn’t struggle too much to find a perfect stranger. Someone totally _okay_ to spend a night with. To break up the monotony.

He was supposed to be one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet, for fucks sake. He had DMs full of propositions, even if he refused to touch them. What had happened? He was still hot. Still popular. Still desirable. Well, maybe he had been a few years ago. Pop stars and actresses had tired of him. His ego had crushed regular, civilian people. What was left?

With a knock on his door and a frantic shout, his assistant broke him out of his trance. London shoots weren’t even any calmer than abroad. He had a longer commute, the budget was smaller, and no one was even charmed by his accent here. Still, he’d promised Luke some TV work, just to keep his hat in.

And it was fun. It was easier than stage. It was longer days compensated with much higher pay. The stage was his home, but it couldn't pay his mortgage. It hurt to feel his interest in his craft slipping, but throbbing feet and deafening stage doors just didn’t hold the interest they once did. Instead, he got to play at being a spy. A superhuman. A complex character who he got ten full hours to try and communicate on-screen, with as many retakes and edits as it took to make him look his best.

Strolling onto a set wasn’t the same buzz as a stage, but it was probably better for his nerves.

The people milling around weren’t particularly interested in greeting him, not after the first couple of days. The previously blushing interns largely ignored him, and the director beckoned him over impatiently, tight-lipped.

He gave the writer a quick nod, a twitch of a wave, as he passed her chair. Jennifer, her name was. She seemed busy. Uptight. He’d never had a conversation last over five minutes with her, but he supposed that was fair enough. It was a busy shoot. The first time her work had been adapted for the screen, and she was already running with the big dogs – big name actors, directors, a big fancy producer. He’d be fucking stressed too. Not that she needed to be. He took this work because the script was _brilliant._ He’d never managed to convey that earnestly to her, it was on his to do list.

She tapped at her script relentlessly, right up until the clapper slammed down with a startling _snap_.

Tom’s attention had to be snapped away too, focused on smouldering and pouring himself into the character, like molten metal into a mould. This role was a sexy one, he’d been hitting the gym and dehydrating to get this toned - he knew it’d look amazing. He was alone on the set stage, just doing his lines ready to be cut into the rest of the scene. It was intense, just him as the centre of attention, lots of attempts to get it right. The director would give a dramatic sigh if he even twitched a lip wrong, and he fought to keep his cool under the lights and quick retakes, staring into those oversized lenses, trying to let criticism roll off him. It was intense, but not overwhelming. Not when he was doing it for the thousandth time.

He’d glance up at her, between some takes, his body glistening with oil to make it seem like he’d just walked out of the shower. Frankly, it felt a little too good. He stifled a laugh at her apparent disinterest, barely glancing at the monitor playback when the director asked her questions, staring relentlessly down at her clipboard whenever she caught Tom’s eye, blushing like a virgin. She’d written the damn script, what did she expect?

Now he was half-naked, pretending to seduce a woman behind the camera lens, holding court in the studio like an oiled-up, buff jester. For some reason it didn’t feel right today. It didn’t feel sexy, or powerful, like fulfilling work, or any of the other reasons he liked to tell himself he did these kinds of jobs.

But he was good. He knew it looked the part. The shoot was over as quickly as it could’ve been, with a scattered, disinterested clap from the crew. Other actors traipsed onto the marked-out area, giving Tom nervous waves as they watched the sets move, listened to the cinematographers. He sought out a gown to cover himself before a shower, giving a polite ‘goodbye’ to anyone who was watching, hiding a grimace at the way the fabric stuck to his chest with the viscous oil.

Jennifer hadn’t even looked up. Footage was being reviewed. Camera kit was being swapped out. Makeup and assistants hurried around like bees in a hive, jobs to do, places to be.

Tom had already been forgotten, just another person being told to leave the room.

*

It was one of the gaffers’ birthdays. Obviously, everyone was going out for drinks, and Tom knew it would be poor form if he didn’t show. They’d all call him a snob, complain about him being too famous to show up. It would be fair criticism, he supposed. God knows he’d had those conversations about older actors in his early days. He found himself grateful for the invite, actually. The crew were fun. A good team. Minimal conflict, minimal drama. The drinks would probably be very nice, in a quiet hotel bar. Plus, he found chances to socialise unfilmed were hard to come by these days.

He packed his backpack to join everyone, met with polite smiles when he accepted the offer. There was a spare seat in someone’s cab, and Tom took it, buying a drink in exchange for the lift. He was world-weary enough to let conversation wash over him, laughing along at the jokes the younger crew members told, adding a comment when asked.

They didn’t try and grill him like some people did. Clearly they weren’t interested in a private interview, just a chance to unwind. He doubted the cab driver even recognised him, too busy arguing with someone on the phone as he careened around the dark London streets. He’d been offered the lift out of kindness, consideration for a colleague, rather than someone kissing up.

It felt good, in a bittersweet kind of way.

*

The cast and crew drinks were muted, after an initial hour of rowdiness and excitement, and an out-of-tune rendition of happy birthday. The hotel was quite nice, but not ostentatious. The bar was quiet, mainly filled with their group. Everyone was exhausted from their respective long days, sat in small groups chatting, the occasional yawn catching and rippling around the room. Gentle music played over the speakers, quiet enough that no one had to raise their voice to be heard. Candles burned on a few of the tables, and the lighting was gentle enough to give everyone’s eyes a rest after the strain of studio lights.

A few of the younger interns were more energetic, standing in a group as if transplanted from a club, but they were in a strict minority.

Tom was grateful to be able to sit at the bar, let people drift by, chat while they waited for their drinks to be made before wandering on, leave him to the next conversation.

Their writer seemed to take a very similar approach, sat at the other end of the bar barely letting herself be distracted from her laptop, frowning at emails or scripts or whatever was on her screen. She was always polite to the handful of people who wandered over to her, seemed to have been bought a few drinks, but didn’t seem to have a gang of co-workers to sit with. Just like him.

He knew very little about Jennifer, but he knew she wasn’t from London. Her Northern accent gave that away. It appeared she didn’t have a current London residence – she was living in this hotel where most of the staff were also sequestered away, crammed into slightly too few rooms. She didn’t give much else away, and he wasn’t usually privy to the gossip of crew. He’d never seen anyone hold her attention quite like her laptop, or the scripts usually clenched in one hand, marked with more handwritten ink than with typed words. She rewrote a lot. He’d noticed it almost immediately, that she tended to make changes. Always early enough to avoid being totally annoying, but often enough to betray her insecurity about the job.

Tom had to admit, he actually found that a little annoying.

But whatever. This was her whole big break. She could be a bit high maintenance if she wanted.

Her chin-length hair, her slim-cut suit, her makeup, they all showed a little wear from the day. Creased fabric here, a crumble of mascara there, nothing big enough to be obvious. Tom just seemed to notice these things. About her, anyway.

People were starting to leave, and he wasn’t done with his drink. It was an expensive Scottish single malt, courtesy of a director who was likely drunk enough to regret it in the morning. His generosity would probably surface as a hefty credit card bill in a few weeks, and Tom would feel bad wasting it. Once his steady stream of conversation partners finally dwindled to a stop, everyone’s final drink of the evening poured, Tom turned his attention back to Jennifer. She wasn’t typing anymore, instead picking at a manicured nail, swilling a cocktail around that seemed no more closer to done than his own half-full drink.

Jacket and glass in hand, Tom headed to the other end of the bar.

“Weird mood here tonight, hey?”

Shit. Bad opening line. Ah well. What else was this face for?

He got a chuckle out of Jennifer, though. So he pushed on.

“Hey, we’ve met on set. I’m Tom.”

He held out a hand. She took it. Firm handshake, sweaty palm.

“Yeah.”

She regarded him with a raised eyebrow, barely concealed mocking on her face. A look that said ‘no shit, we’ve met.’ It was a weird interaction already, and Tom regretted not spending a little longer on an introduction.

“It’s Jennifer, right?”

She gave him a smile, a soft nod. She closed the lid of her laptop, finally. The distracting white glow of the screen cut out, leaving Tom in no doubt that she wanted to talk to him.

Frosty exterior? Melting.

“Yeah. Call me Jen, though.”

She looked around, seemingly only just noticing the dwindling number of their colleagues. Clearly no one had sought out her attention in a while either.

“I think everyone is just wound up. A little exhausted.” Jen sighed as she spoke, cracking her knuckles and rolling her shoulders. Her hands returned to the lid of the laptop, drumming in agitation.

“Can’t blame them. It’s a long damn shoot.”

“Cheers to that.”

She held up her drink jokingly, and Tom quickly grasped for his own, clinking glasses together with her fast enough that she couldn’t avoid it. She smiled as he drank, holding eye contact with her until she sipped her own cocktail. She winced a little as the alcohol hit her tongue, confirming his suspicion that the drink had been bought for her. It looked sweet. He wondered if she liked whisky.

He cleared his throat, not that he needed to make noise to catch her attention. She was already watching him, with some concern.

“Are you okay? You seemed a bit out of it on set today.”

He was taken aback. Sure, he’d been a bit zoned out, but he was surprised anyone had picked up on it. Maybe his acting hadn’t been A-Game today after all.

“I’m tired too,” he confessed. “Just… tired.”

She gave him a questioning look, head tilted with a little bit of a pout on her lips. It didn’t seem standoffish though. She actually wanted to hear more.

“I feel a little frustrated. Like every day is déjà vu. I’m disengaged. Bored--” she smiled, and he rushed to correct himself. “Not with the show! It’s a great script it’s just… similar? Not like the _same_ as other stuff. I’m just…”

He waited for her to fill the gap, to give him a break. She let him wait a little too long, making the pause turn into a gap. Finally, she spoke, laughter tinting her tone.

“It’s fine. I get it. I’m not surprised you get annoyed being… typecast.”

He didn’t miss the way she looked him over, appraising the angles of his face and the lines where his t-shirt sleeves hugged his muscles. He wondered if she’d been involved in choosing him. In debating whether he’d fit the part of _rugged, damaged, painfully handsome, seductively muscular,_ just like she’d written.

“I get it. I’ll try and write you something less familiar next time.” She gave him a lazy wink, the first time he’d seen her loosen up, a hint that she’d consumed alcohol. “Can be easy being all sexy and handsome for thirty minutes each day.”

“Oh, piss off.”

He huffed out a laugh, throatily, smiling, eyes shut.

When he opened his eyes, he caught her staring at him, tongue on her lower lip in the first physical sign she was flirting with him. Perfect.

“It is crazy, being on a shooting schedule like this. The stress. The pressure. I really wasn’t expecting it, to be honest.”

“First time, right?”

She nodded, taking a sip of her drink, slender fingers returning to tapping on her laptop lid.

“You’re doing a bang-up job, if that makes you feel any better.”

With a sincere, arresting stare, she stopped tapping. The eye contact was almost too much.

“It does, actually. Thank you.”

He was tempted to take her stilled hand. Feel the warmth of her skin, try and a soothe her agitation.

“So, no boyfriend, back home?”

“God no. That might make this all less stressful, I guess. A nice gentleman caller.”

“Oh?”

She threw back her drink pointedly, chewing a piece of ice once the cocktail glass was back on the bar, slid away from her. Tom made a concerted effort to speed up his enjoyment of the whisky.

“This kind of shooting schedule is frustrating.”

“Surprisingly lonely.” She interjected, a tint of mirth in her voice.

“…Quite.”

So, they were on the same page.

“I hope they set you up with a good suite. New or not, you’re the head writer here.”

She gave him a tense smile.

“It’s more of a room, I’m afraid. Good room service budget, though.”

“Cheapskates.”

He gave her an exaggerated frown, clenching a fist like he was on-set, acting enraged. His faux-anger got a giggle out of her, making his brain race, working hard to find a continuation of this flirting. Jen beat him to it.

“It’s quite a nice room, though. Do you wanna see it?”

He looked around. The bar had emptied. The few people left were in no state to gossip tomorrow. He would like to see her room. A lot.

Tom finished his whiskey with impolite swig, ice hitting his face and making Jen laugh at his wrinkled nose.

“Absolutely.”

*

Jen’s room was totally underwhelming. Ordinary. What wasn’t ordinary was the way her hand trailed up and down his in the lift – the other clasping her laptop so tightly Tom worried for her manicure.

Their fingers had been entangled when they left the lift on her floor, Tom playing, making teasing lines on the back of her hand. The way he touched her was like a challenge. Pushing her limits. Seeing if she’d stop him. Every single time she met him. Each of his strokes further up her arm, every time he grasped her hip, she’d run a hand inside his t-shirt, ghosting across his stomach and teasing the sensitive skin under his belt. Always pushing for more.

It had made him smile, the way her hands grabbed for her key card desperately, groaning in frustration when it had taken a second swipe for the lock light to flash green. Now, in her hotel room, Tom faltered for a second.

“I don’t usually do this, you know.”

Jen had been busy, straightening up the room and putting away her laptop. No distractions. Her jacket was off now. Slung on a chair in the corner of her room which was stacked high with work papers. When he spoke, she turned to him.

And she finally gave him a proper, loud laugh. He smirked along with her, a little stung by her disbelief.

It wasn’t a lie, technically. He really hadn’t fucked around in a while. He’d been spooked off his co-workers. Kept it PG. All above board.

God, he was bored.

“Neither do I, in case that surprises you.”

She was already in the process of taking her own shirt off, unbuttoning it with a confidence Tom hadn’t predicted from her. He liked it. The way she teased, sauntered towards him with a sly smile, a hint of cleavage framed by loose-hanging halves of ironed white faux-silk shirt. He wanted his face there. He wanted to rip the rest of the buttons off that shirt. He threw his own coat to the side, leaving him in a t-shirt and jeans, too warm and too constrained.

“A woman as beautiful as you, I can’t imagine how you’ve kept them away.”

She huffed, ruffling out her hair and teasing it at the roots, like she was physically brushing off his compliment. Internally, he groaned. She wasn’t making it easy for him to take control. They hadn’t even kissed yet and he could feel himself getting hard, a tenseness in his groin, anticipation building.

With long strides he met her mid-walk, stilled her hands before cupping her face, holding her gaze for an agonising second before pressing their lips together. He’d been aiming for passionate, aggressive, controlling. In seconds, she met him with tenderness.

“God, Jen. I want you.”

“Do you have protection?” Her voice was soft in his ear, so gentle and nothing that he almost forgot to answer.

Shit. Shit. _Shit shit shit._

He laughed awkwardly, patted down his pockets like the Durex-Gods might suddenly smile upon him.

They didn’t.

Her hands were on her hips, pulling the halves of her shirt apart, giving him a full view of her sheer bra even as he offered a sheepish smile.

No condom.

“Sorry.” He hissed through his teeth, honestly glad she’d asked. He could’ve gotten ahead of himself.

Jennifer approached him, shoved her hands in the front pockets of his jeans, as though she might find something different. He felt himself tense, her fingers so close, _right there_. She had to strain up a little to whisper in his year, but she managed it, still anchored by her _close_ hold on his trousers.

“We can work around that, I think?”

He nodded, holding her face with one hand to kiss her jaw, the side of her mouth, and then open-mouthed on her lips.

“Happily, love.”

Once she had decided he should be naked, Tom couldn’t stop her. Jen worked his jeans off with a fumble at his fly, and two hands burrowing underneath his tight waistband, taking a moment to contemplate before she left his straining underwear in place. As she eased his trousers off, Tom removed his own shirt, praying he wasn’t still tacky from the oil on set earlier. If he was, Jen didn’t seem to notice.

She eyed him up like she was appraising art, trying to figure out if he was genuine, how much he was worth to her. With a duck of her head, one which had Tom far too excited for one split second, her mouth met his sternum. His frustrated growl became a whimper on his lips, and he felt her smile open-mouthed against his skin.

“Be patient.”

She licked a line, slowly, up through the sparse chest hair between his pecks. He felt a chill where her tongue had been, warmth on his back where her hands were planted. She was stood between his legs, pressing closer until she could most certainly feel him, pressing into her. When she reached his neck, she paused in the hollow between two tendons, pressing a gentle kiss.

Tom found himself aching to take control, speed her up, put her mouth somewhere else. But quiet and firm, Jen kept his attention. He was frozen still, muscles tensed, like he was afraid to scare her away. Afraid to lose her focus. He groaned at the graze of her teeth, the soft muscle of her tongue laving and moving until she could find suction. He gasped as she started marking him, a lovebite just below his neck. He hated to stop her, but…

“We’re shooting tomorrow,” he pushed her head away, met with a groan.

Her eyes were dark, a pout on her hips.

“The makeup team are pretty good.”

Her fingers found his collarbone, pressed experimentally against the muscle there. Her tongue found the spot again.

“Jennifer…” It was a groan, deep from inside his chest.

He had no motivation to stop her, aside from the wrath of the on-set gossip tomorrow. The story might not leak outside their production, if he was lucky, but that tiny bruise wasn’t a hit his image could take right now.

So instead he grabbed her by the shoulders, occupied her mouth with is own as he freed her from her blouse, slid his fingers around the band of her sheer bra, desperate to find that latch get an unobstructed view. It took him two tries, one hand, and one laugh from Jen to undo the hooks. He pulled the bra from her, missed the warmth of her hands as she helped. His hands met her breasts, kneading until she shoved him away with a desperate groan, letting him back more gently, guiding him.

Jennifer guided him backwards as he explored, and he followed her without question, slow steps taking them further into her room. She pushed him down onto the bed, soft hands with a strong will behind them, and Tom found himself complying wordlessly. He raised his hips as Jen hooked her fingers around his waistband, trying not to shiver at her hands brushing over the sensitive skin her his boxers. Even the friction of fabric over his cock made him grit his teeth. Jen left his underwear above his knees, tense on his thick thighs and binding his legs from spreading too far. Her suit trousers had been stripped, leaving her in frustratingly opaque high-waisted black underwear. She grinned wide, teeth on show between her pink-smudged lips as she crawled back up his body, straddling him.

Fingers traced the base of his cock, not enough pressure to make him feel anything but frustrated. She examined him with brushes of touch, and Tom fought not to whine.

“Disappointed?”

“Not in the slightest.”

She took him in hand, and Tom couldn’t remember his cock ever feeling so unbearably swollen. Her smaller fingers felt so foreign around him, every nerve ending focussed entirely on where they might wander next.

“What do you want?”

“You.”

He tried for charming. For deep voice and a smoulder. But it was harder than in the studio. The strangled grunt of a syllable that came out was genuine. Jen laughed.

“You’re not going to give me anything more… specific?”

She gave him two gentle tugs, dry and torturous enough to make Tom’s upper body arch off the bed. He tried not to jerk as she traced up the underside of his cock, finding precum to smear across the head of his dick. He had to close his eyes as she took him in her mouth, slowly licking and using her fingers to tease him, then sucking hard. He knew she was struggling, from the obscene noises she made, but the feeling was too good to stop her. A hand on her head acted more as another point of comfort than to hold her in place.

His fingers became grabbing as she got him closer and closer, his grunts joining the wet noises of her mouth, her fingers toying with his balls and the parts of his shaft she couldn’t reach with those saliva-coated lips of hers. Every time he allowed his eyes to open, to focus, he could see her breasts, hanging, bouncing past his cock. Her hair covered her face, but just the noises she made, still trying to take her deeper, made him groan and throw his head back onto the bed. He came with a jolt, clasping her hair in one hand, bedsheets in the other. She kept him in her mouth, his softening cock pressed against the velvety muscle of her tongue. Jen held still, swallowing, until he pulled her away.

She wiped her mouth roughly, throwing herself down beside him on the bed. He pulled her closer, let himself pause for a moment, feeling the comfort of having another person near him in a moment of vulnerability. Jennifer’s breathing was almost as ragged as his.

“Was that okay-”

He cut her off with a kiss.

“You shouldn’t have let me go first.” Tom groaned, eyes closing as she laughed, a rich, bouncy sound he wouldn’t have imagined from her before today. It was late, but he couldn’t imagine going to sleep without paying Jennifer back thrice over. At least.

*

He made her cum on his fingers, teasing and curling inside her as they lay side by side, initially giving scarce attention to her clit as he worked more and more fingers inside her. Her underwear had joined their other clothes, discarded on the floor, as she guided his hand downwards. She’d been so wet, slick enough for him to sink one finger straight into her warmth, being rewarded by her gasp right into his ear. Their bodies were so close. He could hear everything. Every breath. Feel every rock of her hips, twist of her neck.

She was so responsive. Vocal. She’d tell him what was too much, too hard, not enough, too soft. He had kept losing his rhythm just listening to her, each of his falters met which a whine, a gentle kick to his feet. Finally, he focused. With three fingers inside her, her own hand working her clit, she’d bitten into his forearm as she came, leaving a distinct mark even without breaking the skin. Makeup would notice tomorrow.

Tom made her lick his fingers clean, just as she’d licked them before he worked them inside her, and felt himself stirring again at the sensation of her tongue working around his sticky fingers. Their naked bodies were pressed together so intimately he wanted to cry, wanted to crush her to him just to feel more skin.

After a cuddle, a mumbled thank you, more teasing, she was on his face.

He wasn’t allowed to go slow. Jennifer had made that awfully clear. His lips wrapped around her clit like his life depended on it, giving her as much as she wanted, waiting until she gripped the headboard to start stroking with his tongue. This was as close as he could get to fucking her now, without protection. So he savoured it.

The intimacy of those thighs wrapped around his neck and race, of her smell, her taste. The way her fingers tangled into his hair, tugging when she wanted more, like she was whipping a racehorse. He did what she wanted, submitted to her in a way which felt against his nature. And yet he didn’t feel like grappling for control. He just wanted to give her what she needed. Finally, with a scream he was sure might render complaints at this time of night, she got it.

He helped her from her kneel, rubbed her thighs when she laughed that they were cramping, curled her into him as closely as she dared. Tom kicked his underwear off his legs, feeling stupid for having them there for so long, and Jennifer stroked the unmarked skin where they’d rested.

He was struck by how much he _liked_ her.

Fuck.

 _Please don’t ask me to leave_ , he wanted to whine, _let me stay_.

Her body was warm, comfortable, moulding into his like they belonged this close. She was still breathing deeply, moving tenderly. He couldn’t even let her calm down as he formulated a question, blurting it out before he lost the nerve.

“Do you maybe want to get coffee with me? Tomorrow, I mean? Like if you get any breaks..?”

Not your smoothest work, Hiddleston. He could imagine a good number of his friends laughing at his awkwardness, so uncharacteristic and frustrating. Jen just laughed. He could feel the movement of her soft, warm breasts against him on every inbreath. Her fingers wandered his bicep, cuddling into the muscle of his shoulder. He couldn’t imagine leaving now, trying to sleep alone, knowing she was here.

“I was thinking breakfast.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck it, no beta

God. Fuck.

Tom had laughed all through breakfast, trying to ignore the curious looks from other production crew staying at the same hotel. He totally lost track of time. Jennifer held his whole attention, chatting between bites of fruit salad and pastries. She was funny. Quick, more notably. Would never let him get the last word.

With a faint sense of worry he realised he could talk to her here, forever, and struggle to be bored.

“I should, uh, get going.”

The director was coming downstairs, likely hungover beyond belief. He’d be able to see Tom - if only he could bear to look anywhere but the dark carpet, squinting against the light of the room. Still, Tom kept his voice down.

“Yep. See you on set?”

She grabbed ahold of his hand in a sweet parting gesture. He smiled back, nodding. Hoping he didn’t come off as desperate.

He was frankly surprised she hadn’t kicked him out of bed when she woke up practically smothered by his strong arms around her. Instead, she’d wriggled a little freer, making up for the lost contact with her own hold on him. She’d dozed off like that, until the alarm on Tom’s dying phone woke both of them.

They’d showered separately, but she’d changed in front of him, giving him a joking striptease with her fluffy white towel which had him earnestly hard.

God. He really wanted her.

Not just for sex, either. He _wanted_ her.

They didn’t have sex again, but she gave him another kiss. It had made him blush.

On his lunch break Tom made the walk to a corner shop, stocking up on condoms. Just in case.

As he paid, ignoring the panic of the young cashier who recognised him, a sinking feeling filled his stomach. There was a good chance she only wanted a one-night stand. An occasional drunk fuck buddy at best.

The universe felt like it was taunting him. Screaming at him:

‘Be careful what you wish for!’

Catching feelings. It felt _bad._

*

Apparently someone had been looking for him on set to go over some stunt work for the next day. He listened carefully, with as much attention as he could muster, determined not to injure anyone else with his distraction. He looked at the storyboards, the riggings, the scripts, all the while trying not to glance up at her. Look for her.

He’d seen her seat empty earlier, double checking the bold ‘WRITER’ on the backrest of her chair as he walked past, making sure it really was her – missing her first day on set since they’d started filming.

It was hard not to assume correlation. God, what if someone found out and she was in trouble? What if she was quitting, couldn’t come back on set? He usually considered himself a pretty good reader of people, but with some women? Clueless.

They were consenting adults. He’d seemed beyond happy this morning. Those were the two things he knew for certain, and he’d hold them close to his heart, a comfort blanket against the incoming coldness of rejection and longing.

He’d never quite quashed the hopeless romantic inside him, even through the years of quick fucks and vicious breakups. The impulse was still there, gnawing inside of him. He wanted to find out her favourite food. He wanted to fuck her slowly, knowing they had all the time in the world. He wanted to take her on surprise romantics trips and he wanted to read in bed with her, knowing she was there, still touching him.

Leaving flowers in her office, love notes on her laptop, hot tea on her desk when she worked too late. He wanted it all. So much.

It had been hours, and he was already fucking daydreaming.

“Tom? You got that?”

“Yes! Yeah. Can you write it down for me?”

The stunt guy huffed, clearly bored of Tom’s glassy-eyed stare, his lack of attention for the most important safety instructions he’d be given the whole shoot. He was glad he was a _little_ to famous to be given a bollocking, or reported to the producers for ignoring safety instructions. Still, he usually cared an awful lot more about whether he’d be a risk to others.

Tom kicked himself for his wandering mind.

“I’ll email all this over to you.”

“Thanks, man.” Tom caught himself sighing.

The stunt co-ordinator’s irritation faded. He was tired too, tempers ran short, anger burned out quickly. He clapped one calloused hand on Tom’s shoulder, the unexpected force dragging Tom back to reality, almost making his knees buckle.

“Get some sleep, man. You looked tired.”

*

No-one else needed him the rest of the day, and Tom felt pathetic just trailing around the set, timidly asking make-up artists and prop makers if they’d “maybe seen Jenny?”

They hadn’t.

“I just had some questions about the script, is all.”

Lying 101: _don’t say too much_. He was failing that beginner’s class.

The odd pair of eyebrows raised at his mumbled excuses, making him feel like a scolded child. Tom grabbed his bag, and decided to walk home. It was Friday, but they shot through the weekend. He might see her tomorrow.

He hoped he would.

“Hey! Tom!”

Christ. It was Jenny, faint from shouting down the corridor, but clear as day. Thank god. He turned, resisted the urge to run to her as she walked down the corridor towards him. The nearest door was an unlocked dressing room, and he ducked in, holding the door open to let her follow.

She muttered a thanks, before firmly closing the door behind them.

“Hello.” Jenny smiled at him.

Tom was confused, perching himself on the makeup benches so he wasn’t standing so awkwardly.

Jenny crossed over to him, standing beside his crossed ankles. Her arms were crossed, but they quickly dropped when Tom spoke.

“I was looking for you today.”

She frowned.

“So I’ve heard.” Jenny mulled over her words for a second. “You know Tom… If people find out we slept together… it might ruin my career. At this stage.”

Tom wanted to be mad, but he understood. The probably shouldn’t be caught sleeping with the writer of his project either. ‘Slept together’ past tense? That hurt him more than he’d expected.

She felt bad. It was obvious. Jenny was staring down at her shoes (smart leather flats, not heels like the day before), wringing her hands. Tom brought a hand up to ghost the line of her jaw, mimicking comfort without making contact. She didn’t flinch away.

“Jenny, it’s okay. I’ve been there.”

She tilted her head into his palm, meeting his eyes.

“I’m sure.”

“I would never say anything. My career doesn’t need the damage either.”

She was smiling at him now, and Tom felt a tightness in his chest. She was so pretty, so trusting, he had to look away. Looking behind her, into the dressing room mirror, he saw the face of an absolute lovestruck idiot.

His wide grin, smile lines, the blush in his cheeks, he wanted to tell his reflection to get a grip.

Jenny was looking at him curiously

“So you wouldn’t say anything, even if we did it again?”

Distracted from the mirror, he smiled down at her. The meaning behind Jenny’s smirk wasn’t lost on him.

“Certainly not.”

“Even if we did something… on set?”

His hands had fallen to the bench she was perched on, but they moved closer to her hips,

“I’m sure we could find a quiet room.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

_Shut up and kiss the girl, Hiddleston!_ He was screaming at himself to shut up. To make a move. It was like watching in slow motion, as he just stared at her, unable to move.

Jenny had to awkwardly pull him down, standing to her full height, just to meet his lips.

It was only instinct guided him to grab her waist that he realized: his hands were shaking.

“You okay?”

She pulled back, caring eyes desperately searching his for what could possibly be wrong.

Tom was like a deer in headlines. He couldn’t answer her. His hands feel limply to the side.

He was a grown man.

They’d already had sex, for fuck’s sake.

He wanted to talk, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

Jenny was, to say the least, freaked out. And fair enough. He’d gone silent on her, gone from taking the lead to a zombie. All he could feel was his lips, still pouted awkwardly from where she’d kissed him, and the red hot burning in his chest, slowly spreading to his face, making him ache with how overwhelmed he felt.

He had to sit down, but his mind was trailing miles behind his body.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Jenny’s words found him like through water, drowned out by his own thoughts.

“Tom?”

His eyes snapped to hers, and he imagined that his cold stare must have been terrifying. Nervously, Jenny guided him to a chair, watched him stiffly sit, her hands tentatively helping him down.

In the mirror, he didn’t recognize himself.

“Call me later, yeah?”

Tom didn’t watch her leave, but he jumped at the click of the door closing gently behind her.

Suddenly, the world hit him with startling clarity. His senses restarted and overwhelmed him, the hot feeling of sweat on his back, the embarrassment of freezing up like that, his phone digging into his thigh where he was sat on it. Tom slouched forwards, head in hands.

Oh, Jenny. Sweet Jenny. God knows what she thought.

He had to call someone. A friend. Not a colleague. Someone in the same timezone.

The options were depressingly slim.

Fortunately, Ben would’ve been his first choice no matter what. With no prying questions, he picked up on the second ring, let Tom vent and pace as much as he needed until he slouched down in the chair, completely talked out.

Ben told him about the kids for a bit, about his upcoming projects, letting Tom tune in and out of the conversation as much as he needed to in order to calm down and process. It was nice. Tom left the conversation smiling, with promises to come over for dinner soon, and Ben promised to pass on his love to Sophie and the kids.

When he finally hung up, with no idea how long had passed, he had a message from an unsaved number.

_Hope you’re okay x_

She’d sent it twenty minutes ago, so Tom replied immediately.

_Better now, thanks x_

It seemed a little cold, impersonal. He was already typing out an explanation, when Jenny’s next message came through.

_Wanna talk about it? Can call now?_

It took a deep breath before Tom felt ready to reply, but he managed it. Everything was easier over text.

_In person would be better. Dinner? x_

It was only two words, but Tom felt his heart clench at her reply.

_Sounds good x_

*

Reservations were easier to make mid-week, but it still took him a while to find somewhere he liked with a private room. He’d tried to go back over everything they’d eaten at breakfast together, trying to figure out what Jenny would want to eat, what .

He made sure the bill wouldn’t even be mentioned, that they wouldn’t be disturbed more than necessary, and that they were high enough to avoid even the best camera lenses the press might have.

There would be no manifestations of his fame, only enough showing off of his wealth to woo her, nothing ostentatious. He text her the address and time.

_No need to dress up. I’m going straight from work x_

Strictly speaking, he’d tried to dress up. Tom had rummaged through his dressing room for a shirt and made a sloppy attempt to use the steamer, much to the bemusement of the few wardrobe crew still working. He looked reasonably smart, but definitely underdressed for the restaurant. That was the joy of a private room, he supposed.

He hadn’t spotted Jenny at all, she must have gone home. She probably had things to do, errand and script edits, whilst he was still skulking around the studio until an acceptable time to call a taxi.

Tom still hadn’t unraveled his panic earlier, why he felt so overwhelmed.

Sometimes he felt like his own character was the hardest one he had to play.

Why had he panicked? Why had his emotions manifested in that way?

Tom had experienced a couple of minor panic attacks before, but certainly none because of a crush, or at the prospect of making out with a beautiful woman. Ben had written it off as exhaustion – after teasing him for having feelings for this woman – but Tom wasn’t so certain.

He needed to be able to explain though, Jenny deserved an answer.

“What happened earlier, I…” Tom’s mouth was dry, he was at a loss for words.

How could he explain, when he didn’t know himself?

“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, though. Please don’t think that.”

He couldn’t see pity in Jenny’s expression, but there was certainly concern.

“It’s okay, Tom. I was just _worried_ about you. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Of course. Of course she wasn’t mad. She was too kind, too forgiving. She hadn’t assumed the worst. She’d been _worried_.

“I wondered if… you might want something more conventional with me? I’m not an easy person to be with, but I really like you. If you’re willing-”

“Tom.”

Jenny cut him off. Tom was grateful. Given a few more sentences, he probably would have asked her to cosign a mortgage. Asked her about kids, if she’d want a summer wedding.

“You seem to have tricked me into going on a date with you already,” she smirked, taking in the candles and flowers strewn across the room.

Tom slightly regretted not clarifying the nature of the situation with the restaurant, but Jenny seemed to appreciate it.

“But yes, I’d really like that.”

He knew there must be a goofy look on his face, that he should be playing it cool, but he just wanted to hug her. It was like being a teenager again, feeling awkward and lanky and too aware of his body. Tom tried to prop his elbow up on the table, putting it back down when he realized it was rude, clumsily playing with his fork, all while grinning at her.

Jenny laughed.

It startled Tom just how happy that made him. To entertain her. Hold her attention.

He desperately scrambled for something to say about the menu, to keep the conversation going.

*

“Don’t take this the wrong way…” Jenny was fastening up her coat whilst Tom waited for her, pleasantly surprised he hadn’t seen the flash of a single camera outside the exit.

She looked up at him for a moment, and Tom struggled to restrain his cheesy grin.

“Actually… never mind.”

He laughed. The wine had hit him harder than expected, gone straight to his cheeks so they were flushed red. He felt light, almost dizzy, a glass of wine away from wrapping her up in his arms and spinning her around.

With a pout, he answered her back.

“No! Tell me!”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She held out her arm for him to take, and even with the slowness of being wine drunk, Tom was by her side in a second, clumsily weaving their arms together. They walked out of the restaurant with a wave and a thanks to the waiter, certain she hadn’t even noticed the bill, or the hefty tip he’d left while she was in the bathroom.

The restaurant was just a few hundred feet from the waterfront, pleasantly quiet and lit by a strip of streetlights, as close to dark as you could get in this city. It granted him anonymity, and romance for Jenny. Perfect.

They’d barely walked a minute before Tom started

“ _Tell me!_ ”

He whined, he whispered it in her ear, he tickled her sides until she insisted she’d eaten _far_ too much for that behaviour, squealed that she’d answer, before someone nearby called the police.

“It’s really not that exciting!”

“Then tell me!”

“I just didn’t think you’d be so… goofy,” Jenny scrambled to correct herself, but Tom just clutched her arm closer. “So easy-going.”

He certainly hadn’t felt easy-going, their lovely dinner constantly punctuated by the fear something was wrong, he’d done something wrong, was about to do something wrong. She’d constantly thanked him, laughed, opened up with stories and comments, but Tom had been _scared_. There were real, actual _stakes_. He wanted to _woo_ her. Wanted her to be impressed. To stay with him.

“Thanks, I think?”

“It’s a good thing!” she insisted. “This has been so romantic, but not, intense, y’know? I really enjoyed it.”

“I’m so glad.”

The wine was loosening his tongue, Tom knew it, but he didn’t want to play games with Jenny.

“I really wanted to impress you, and also apologise, obviously.”

She dropped his arm, only to find his hand before he could even miss her warmth. With no layers of clothing between their cold skin, her touch felt so much more intimate. Tom felt himself flush, yet again. The power this woman had over him, Ben would be in hysterics.

“I’m really am so sorry about earlier. I was just overwhelmed. Scared. I really like you, a lot.”

Jenny smiled, and their pace slowed considerably, her footsteps lazier, less driven forwards. Tom followed suit, strolling as he focused on her speaking.

“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re alright. I didn’t mean to leave I just… didn’t know what else to do.”

“It was for the best, don’t worry.”

Tom cringed to think what state he might have been in if she’d stayed in the room. He doubted they would be walking here, hand in hand, for sure.

“I was disappointed, though.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. Dressing room sex is now on my bucket list.”

Tom chuckled, squeezing her hand, running his other hand through his hair in a way he wished he could stop doing. He knew it betrayed him when he was nervous. With any luck, Jenny wouldn’t realise that tell for a few more weeks.

“You know, we’re not too far from my place…”

Jenny smirked at him, stopping him under the light from a streetlamp. His coat collar was folded over, and her gentle fingers moved to straighten it out, hands resting on his broad shoulders for a second.

“Can I see it?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Hiddleston fic! (un-beta'd, obviously haha). Not sure if I liked it yet tbqh
> 
> Feedback and kudos always appreciated!  
> (As are suggestions for better names lol)


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